Derek has a neck kink like no other. Not that Stiles has anyone else to compare that last statement with but given the amount of attention the man gives his neck, he figures that its got to be a given. Especially after he’d cornered Scott and asked him if it was some werewolf thing to want to leave so many hickies and marks on your boyfriend or girlfriend’s neck until it looks like a purple and red mess. Scott had given him a confused frown before telling him no so.
Derek has a neck kink.
Now, this doesn’t mean that Stiles is complaining cause fuck you, he isn’t. What’s there to complain about having soft lips, scuff and teeth kissing, nipping, teasing you so much that you’re just a puddle of your former self trying to become one with the couch? Nothing at all, that’s right.
The problem is the part after the vigorous and thoroughly enjoyable necking. The part that comes after Derek stealing one last kiss from his lips and he passes a mirror. Stiles has complicated feelings about that.
Because on one hand, it’s clear as day that a. Derek is seriously into him (like the erection he keeps grinding against Stiles’ wasn’t a dead away for that) and b. he likes to mark Stiles like whoa. But on the other hand, it means having to wear make up to conceal all the marks that Derek deliberately places so high up his neck that Stiles can’t even cover them with a high neck shirt. Unless of course he wears a turtleneck but who the fuck would wear a turtleneck in the middle of the fucking Californian summer?
Derek had strenuously objected to the make up. And by that Stiles means that there had been a lot of silent glowering involved before he had dragged Stiles into the bathroom, scrubbed his neck raw before dropping feather light kisses on the red skin.
"You know…" Stiles begins, tipping his head back with a happy sigh when Derek’s lips kiss his jugular. "Considering the fact that you keep leaving behind all these hickies, you should be the one paying for the concealer I keep needing to buy."
The werewolf mumbles something into Stiles’ neck. It sounds like a no and Stiles knows that he should care but Derek’s doing this thing with his teeth that’s making all his common sense go bye bye and little Stiles go ‘hello! hi there! pay attention to me right now, thanks!’ “I’m serious!” Stiles insists breathlessly, hands clutching at Derek’s shoulders. “I get that you wanna show off that I’m getting some, and I’m down with that! But given how many marks you leave behind, its like… you might as well make me wear a collar that’s says ‘Property of Derek Hale’ on it or something.”
Stiles blinks in surprise at the poster across from him as Derek freezes. He jumps and swears that he doesn’t yelp when Derek’s hands tight on him and pulls him in tighter. Stiles pulls away a few inches, feeling a little dizzy now that he’s straddling Derek’s thighs and lap and their crotches are aligned just right for some prime grinding. But what really gets his attention, and makes his head spin, is the utterly wicked look in Derek’s pale eyes. He looks ready to eat Stiles in the best way possible.
"Shit." Stiles moans, fingers sliding up Derek’s shoulders with a new sense of desperation before they grab the back of his head and pull him in for a searing kiss that makes his spine melt. "Totally getting a collar." He groans into Derek’s mouth, swallowing down his answering moan like a heady sip of whiskey. Derek’s hands slide under his shirt, clutching at his shoulder blades before biting down on Stiles’ lips.